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Civic initiative
MOTHER COURAGE

 

MAMA-KANGAROO 020

 

First childbirth 1991, Belgrade,dr Dragiša Mišović hospital.

Me- than 29, an older woman for my first labor, at that time, petrified, with my belly up to my nose, and the father to be- scared witless of the unknown, plus faking courage. D-Day is after the well-known Crvena Zvezda – Bayern football match. Belgrade is celebrating, and I’m going to pieces.

Reception of the kind staff follows, and they inform me that I need to check in to the hospital IMMEDIATELY because of my postponed term. We part, totally confused, and a metal door is being padlocked behind me by the nurse – “so that the women in labor don’t escape”.

I go upstairs, and they connect me to the fetal monitor, and they say that the labor isn’t happening and that it will be induced tomorrow. What that means and how it affects me-remains unanswered.

That evening I start to feel the first pains and contractions. I look for a nurse who keeps convincing me that it’s nothing, and I try to convince her that I’m in labor. She, unwillingly, agrees to examine me, and then asks me if I can get to the third floor myself because I’m dilated enough. Sure I can. I barge into the delivery room flabbergasted, in pain, and I’m surrounded by a team which is supposed to shave me and give me an enema, and all the while they keep rushing me, and warning me to be careful so the baby doesn’t fall out. Horror.

I drag myself to the table, women moan, most often calling for their mothers, the atmosphere is busy.
I moan and endure the pain. The kind nurse whose name I forgot, but I send her all my love regardless, brings a wad of wet cotton wool for me to suck on because my lips are dry and cracked. She helps me to a chair (at that time, this hospital had a combination of table and chair on which women in labor sat, rather than laid) holding my hand, stroking my hair and reassuring me that it will all be over soon.

A lovely elderly doctor (retired by now) routinely does what she has to do with the wound, and my baby is here. They put on my chest something purple, slimy and bloody with blinking eyes. My first daughter. I cry from pain, joy and I can’t remember what else. I know I was cold, but everyone was sort of there for me.

There are 4 of us in the room. The beds are high, we have no underwear, the nurses addressed us ‘mother’, and as much as I remember they were around. I saw the baby the following day, they brought her tucked in as a roll, unpacked her in front of me, and left her there for a while so I could feast my eyes. She had pink, colorful diapers on when they brought her in for feeding the next time.
General grade can be a 9.



Second childbirth, 1996. Narodni front hospital

My pregnancy was monitored privately. My doctor rescheduled her vacation because of me. She came to the hospital when I rang her and was there during the labor. I can’t mention her name because she still works there. The midwife was a professional.

BUT – the admission to the hospital was HORRIBLE. Impolite, grumpy and rude nurses. The delivery room – huuuuuuuuuge room, sequestered with drapes and screens, tables like wooden benches, women moaning – no one pays attention to them until they realize that the situation came to a head. I tell my doctor to help the woman next to me, and she warns me that she is there on her own time, that is, because of me. I get it.  When THE moment came, two nurses help me up, and place their backs against mine- we’re imitating a semi-sitting position. Baby is here, I’m not. They perform revision surgery while I’m still under anesthesia. I wake up in the hallway. I establish communication with someone who turns out to be an anesthesiologist, who is also my sister’s colleague’s cousin, and he gives me her best. Joy. The beds – a bowl in the middle, the stained sheets are falling apart, I’m wearing something that resembles a nightgown but is torn up the middle to the navel, and I’m not wearing underwear. Those disgusting sanitary pads – that is, cotton wool in some sort of a net. It’s ok, I console myself. They brought the baby for feeding the following day. Painful. Luckily, I have enough experience to help the other women in the room. Taking a shower is an abstract noun. But the following day daddy and my sister come to visit – they paid to get to mommy/sister. Everybody happy.

Grade 2

Tears come gushing. I’ve made the story as short as I could and tried to leave out as many details possible. Thank you for “making me” tell at least a part of the story. I hope that the minister will realize what we’re talking about.

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